


Common Ground

by AceQueenKing



Category: Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Blood and Violence, Graphic Description, M/M, Major Character Injury, One-Sided Attraction, Original Character Death(s), Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-08 18:09:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13463712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceQueenKing/pseuds/AceQueenKing
Summary: Firmus Piett discovers something in common with his boss during an assassination attempt.





	Common Ground

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thymesis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thymesis/gifts).



Admiral Firmus Piett expected many things upon his promotion into his Lordship's service.

He expected to be respected. He was now an admiral of a Super Star Destroyer, no, _the_ Super Star Destroyer. The Queen of the Fleet. He would give orders, other would listen. His men would dodge to get out of his way on the bridge. His boots would cast the second longest shadow and there was power in that.

A power he would strive to enjoy while he still could. Vader's admirals on the Executor tended to have shorter life expectancy than those on other ships - but those executed by the dark lord's ire tended to be stupid or careless and Piett was neither. Not that it would matter, he reflected, if Darth Vader lost his hair-trigger temper. He could only hope to survive long enough to help his family. If nothing else, the survivor benefits would be enough to buy his mother's safety.

He affixed his new insignia; _Admiral_. It felt...odd. Unreal. He hadn't bothered to buy a new uniform set; that seemed far too much a waste. He saved every credit the navy deposited in his account; he would not take the pleasures of the Admiralty that Ozzel had so often indulged in - liquor, hired women, spice. Such things held little appeal to him and he doubted he would live long enough for his dislike for such base indulgences to hurt his career.

Besides, the low collar that had come into popularity with the recent re-design revealed things he'd rather keep hidden. Self-consciously, he touched the bump where his tracker had once been.

 _Soon_ , he reminded himself. Soon he wouldn't be the only Piett in Republic space. Soon, they would be free.

He expected a rather significant pay bump as well - hopefully Lord Vader would give him that; promptly, too. He may be able to buy his families freedom in half the time - provided he survived in the care of Lord Vader, of course.

"You can do this," he whispered to the mirror, careful not to wake another man in the barracks. Though he was now eligible for a single room suite, he would not dare to get used to such extravagance. "You are an _admiral_ ; act like it."

With that, he spun on his heel and left for the bridge, curling his hands into fists so no one could see the way his fingers shook.

\---

Vader was already on the bridge; not a surprise there, both morning and night cycle crew had seen the dark lord frequently. Rarely did his lordship seem to sleep. The giant plastisteel helmet inched incrementally in his direction.

"Admiral Piett," he said.

"M'Lord," he swallowed; terrified. If Vader noticed his discomfort, he said nothing. Piett took his place at his new station, flipping through his morning mail while keeping one eye on the giant in black who stared out the viewpoint as if he could pinpoint the rebel's ship by hand.

Vader was not what he has expected; not in any way. He had expected from Ozzel's complaints that Vader would be breathing down his neck from the moment he came on deck...

And yet.

Attempting to ignore his unease, he stared at their projected course. It was almost perfect, but -

There was a five-kilometer span in the route that forced the Executor to sub-speeds, forcing it to rely on impulse. It wasn't a bad course, but - they'd likely overtake the falcon if they just slingshotted the planet instead. Nal Shodi was an ice giant; its gravitational pull was not so much the lady executor couldn't tred it. It would take _very_ precise calculations but -

Piett was _very_ good at calculations. He started running through the formulas at a fever pitch, checking and double checking the math until - _ah_.

There it was.

Gathering his courage, he downloaded his calculations and approached the literal Sith on deck.

"My Lord?" He asked; the black helmet moved incrementally in his direction.

Without a word, he handed over the calculations. The dark lord flipped through his calculations then turned it over to him.

"Do it," he said.

Piett grinned, then turned to bark orders. The idea of taking such a large ship through such a tricky maneuver was an astounding challenge and Piett relished it.

"And Piett?" The dark lord gestured over to him.

Ah. Swallowing, Piett moved back. Had he made a mistake? Is this where his career began and ended?

The dark lord nodded toward him. "A brave improvement. Not many would dare to correct _my_ calculations."

 _His_ calculations? _Chu-bah,_  Piett mentally swore. He swallowed and saluted, not daring to say another word.

\---

He took a deep, relieved breath as the ship mounted the first turn of his course calculation - each angle sharp and perfect - and couldn't stop himself from smiling as the ship tilted slightly downward. He watched the ship gently groan as gravity asserted it's will on the starship and couldn't stop from continuing to grin like a madman as the Executor gained speed, whipping around the gravitational eddies faster as the ship made gravity - if one could pardon the coarse expression- _its little bitch._

And though there was no change in Vader - he was still standing at the ship's viewport, arms clasped behind his back - Piett could swear that the dark lord was enjoying himself too.

Now if he just got them to Bespin in one piece...He could rest easy.

\---

He watched with trepidation as the  _Millenium Falcon_ faded into the distance. 

The plan had been fool-proof: tractor beams, homing beacons, Vader himself keeping Skywalker occupied. And none of it had mattered. Piett watched as his dreams of freeing his family disappeared in the hot, white lights of the Millenium Falcon as it winked into Hyperspace.

 _Goodbye, Filla. Goodbye,_   _Maliusa_ , he thought.  _Goodbye, mother. I'm sorry._

His lordship turned toward him and Piett swallowed, prepared himself for the Choke, tried to face his death with nothing less than pride - 

and his Lordship said nothing, and turned, walking with a crisp stride back toward his chambers.

Piett - and, he suspected, the entire bridge - breathed easier as his lordship vanished back into the bowels of the ship.

\---

Piett expected many things from being an admiral; he had not expected an assassination attempt.

It took him by surprise; a month in, a month of quaking in his boots when Vader so much twitched a finger, a month when they'd lost Skywalker and yet he'd been spared - until one of the lower decks ensigns started waving a blaster around. Someone else wanted this job?

"For the Rebellion!" The young ensign shouted as he charged toward the deck, where he and Vader were standing. So that was it. He was going to die and it wasn't even personal. Piett watched in slow motion as the blaster was raised, a red shot fired - damn rebels, didn't they know how likely a shot was to hit critical parts of the ship? Perhaps that was part of the plan.

He tensed up as the bolt headed toward him, his soon to be last thoughts only of the family he left behind on Axxila.  _I'm sorry mother, sisters; forgive me, I tried to get you out of slavery, I tried I tried -_

He felt the shot burn a hole through his uniform excruciatingly slowly, felt pain blossom in his chest, and then the second shot - the  _kill_  shot and  _maker_  it was headed right for him -

"You  _DARE_!" a familiar booming voice shouted; Piett sucked in a hot breath as the blaster bolt diverted paths, landing on the Dark Lord's gauntlet instead. It began to hiss and melt, leaving glinting metal peeking through. So the reb had overloaded his blaster; Piett thought numbly; how many shots did they have left before the firearm exploded? Damage to the ship was  _definitively_  part of their plan.

Vader was fast, impossibly fast for a man of his size and bulk. Perhaps the rumors were true and he was not a man at all. The rebel's gun shot again, this aimed at the Dark Lord's eye - he watched the plastisteel melt in horror but then his attention was diverted as the rebels gun flew out of his hands, landing in Pietts lap. He grasped it and hastily pulled out the crystal core, disarming it. One danger was gone. 

He heard a collective gasp from the bridge and looked up; Vader was holding the rebel up by his throat; the ungauntletted arm shining like the sun. It was old tech, clone wars; that much was obvious from the lack of synth skin. The digits were sharp and he could see pinpricks of blood on the rebels neck- and that's when he realized what Vader was doing and swore, loudly.

Those clones war talons were not only holding the rebel up; they were cutting into him; the red welts were growing wider with every vicious swipe of Vader's talon.

Vader's helmet fell back, the last bits of connective plastisteel falling away, and Piett could see clearly, for the second time, his bosses' head - the back of it, anyway. Human, he realized. Male, pale, burned, so many burns - he was was nearly all scar tissue, but then he leaned forward, death in his fingers, and Pietts eyes widened.

There was a slave tag. He knew one when be saw one; you couldn't get rid of the old capsule where the slave tracker once stood. Even through the layers of scars, he saw it, and swallowed.

The rebel screamed; he was in pain, now, no doubt; his head was falling black, the connective tissue starting to tear away, Vader's hand making quick work of it.

Piett was suddenly very very glad his Lordship generally stuck to choking. That was a merciful death, quick, something any slave knew was a mercy- but this, this was long, and needless, and cruel.

The rebel's screams turned into choking rasps, or at least he thought they were. He heard more than saw the last ugly rip of flesh on bone, heard the deafening thud of the head landing on the floor in a way that reminded him of nothing so much as wet cabbage.

it rolled toward him, the face open in a cruel grimace, blood and viscera pouring in its wake. Vader was roaring but the instructions went over his head; others were jumping into action though. That was good. He could see how much they all wanted to please him, stars, Vader - was he  _dying_? It was no secret his suit was for life support and the rebel had done damage, perhaps insurmountable damage. He knew in that moment that Vader loved them all, even if he was terrifying; that Vader would die or at the very least risk his own life to save them all. He had trusted Piett with the safety of the ship,  _kriff_ , he was holding the reb's gun in his hands. Vader trusted him and he trusted Vader and they had saved the ship.

Vader turned toward him. He was saying something, to Piett, he was sure, except the words were far away. Perhaps it would be the end for him now. Perhaps the choke would come, or perhaps he would simply fade away; either way, they had saved the Lady Executor, and that was all he could hope for in terms of success. 

The rebel's blood was all over. Stars, he could smell it. He felt sick. He looked down at his fingers and saw blood, so much  _blood_ , but how had the rebel's blood managed to get on him? He looked down and realized his uniform, once stately grey, had turned red.

Why was it red?

 _Oh_. He was bleeding. Piett laughed. Survived the choke, got shot. Typical Piett luck. 

Vader was upon him now, those deadly talons almost carefully curled on his shoulder. There was a small bump of molten metal on his finger; a wedding ring, he thought, then laughed at his own stupidity because everyone knew Vader had no family but the Empire and the Empire had only Vader to save it. And certainly, if Vader did have a wife or a husband - well, he was hardly the type to keep such a reminder so close.

He looked up, vision swimming. Vader's respirator mask - at least he assumed that's what that was - was still mostly intact, but the rest was gone; he had blue eyes. That was uncommon among slave folk. Perhaps he had come from one of the hutt worlds, where he'd been bred for beauty. There wasn't much chance of him being considered that now, he thought with a laugh. Not by pleasure slaves on Nar Shada standards. Still, there was a handsomeness to him despite the obvious damage - the high cheekbones, those eyes -

Stars, he had lost it. Was he really rating Lord Vader's attractiveness?  _Chudah_ , he was further kriffing gone than he'd thought.

"Piett," That booming voice said. "Medical. Now."

Vader's hands pulled him up with exquisite grace and though he felt weak, he stumbled forward. Vader kept his arm around him, guiding him forward, and Piett kept walking.

His Lord willed it so.

\---

At some point, he passed out. One moment he was walking; the next he was on his back, a stiff bacta bandage on his chest and a one-bee fluttering near his head.

" _Chudah_ ," he said. To his surprise, he heard a soft huff of a laugh.

"Indeed, Admiral Piett," Vader said. He glanced over - had he been waiting for him? Vader's helmet had been restored, but the hand was still bare, being worked on by a maintenance unit. It reached out with a heavy blowtorch toward the odd, lumped ring of metal on Vader's finger; his Lordship jerked away. That was off limits, evidently.

"Can I erm, serve you, my lord?" His cheeks tinged pink; it was a stupid question. He was on his back, it wasn't as if he could do much, and such services he could provide were not those his Lordship asked of his admirals, though he'd heard the emperor had no such  _hesitations_  when it came to demanding utter submission from his moffs.

Vader said nothing. He swallowed, closed his eyes; in the eye of uncertainty, silence was best. Any slave knew that, or former slave, in his case.

 _Their_  case.

Kriff, if anything that made Lord Vader's decision to join the troops even more heroic. He had born a slave and he, too, had dedicated his life to bringing order where there was none. They had both seen that universe, and had wanted to make it better. Was Vader, too, serving for his family? Or had a paying master merely been better than one who hadn't?

He thought of Vader in the holosuite, kneeling to the Emporer, the word  _master_  on his lips. He wondered if it tasted as bitter on Vader's lips as he thought it must be.

"You are cleared to leave, Admiral Piett," The one-bee chirruped. "Return in 24 hours to change the bandage. Resist any roughhousing or intense exercise," It said, in a modulated voice Firmus swore was actually disapproving.

"Ill be returning to the bridge then," he said. He got up and reached for his coat when he heard Vader's vocalator make an odd noise; something that sounded like a gasp and a snarl all at once.

"How long?"

Pietts heart grew cold. He shrugged on the jacket and held his hands out. "I'm a freed man. You can check my papers, my Lord; I was freed by General -"

"I am aware of your file, admiral." Vader took a step toward him and Piett took a step back, but it was no use: Vader had him in his sights. "It has  _absences_."

"Fifteen years," he said, quietly. "My father purchased my freedom at his death. He did not see fit to free any of his other bastards, or my mother. But I am free. I was his  _only_  male heir."

And on Axxila, that counted more than any other accident of birth. The first son followed the father, it was known; it was ridiculous, a holdover from a long-dead government, but it was  _known_. Unquested. Traditional. Piett had been lucky, far luckier than his sisters; pleasure slaves, the both of them, like their mother before him. 

Vaders hand clenched and he swallowed. Had he reminded the dark lord of something else? Or perhaps simply reached the end of that infamous' temper? What could he do to assuage him? Perhaps he could, simply, remind them of their common ground?

"And you, my lord?" He asked, and, in response, the air crackled around them. He knew that he had not picked the right choice. There was a tightness in his chest and he willed himself to remember Vader's face; he had not killed him for losing Skywalker and surely that was a more grievous sin. He thought of his family -  _mother, sisters_ ; he was  _so, so sorry_.

"Your family - How much?" Vader asked. It was an odd question, but not a deadly one, and so Piett answered truthfully. 

"A million credits, milord, for my youngest sister; five hundred thousand for my older sister and mother, combined. At least. I - I attempted to buy my younger sister when she came of age, but on Axxila, she was - " His face turned a bright pink, he was sure from the the shame of it all. He'd been outbit by many millions of units, but that had been a good ten years ago now. She would not be worth so much, not after her deflowering.

Vader stared at him for a long moment; then he turned and stomped away. The one-bee did not offer Lord Vader any parting words, and the maintenance unit attempting to sodder his arm withdrew like it, too, was  afraid.

Sighing with relief, Piett buttoned his jacket and went back to work.

His Lordship did not appear on bridge, and the crew all eased up over it. All things considered, it was a quiet shift. Piett himself drew a few curious glances but none dared approach him.

There was power in that, he thought grimly.

\---

When he went back to the group quarters, there was a flimsiplast envelope on his bunk.

He picked it up, noting the unusual black seal on the back with the Executor firmly pressed into it; there was only one such person he could think of with such a personal emblem.  _Vader_.

He opened it with a rotgut dread; he carefully pulled out a piece of flimsi and a chit.

"You are hereby granted two weeks of leave for a personal mission," it read, in a wide, cursive script. "See attached chit for further orders."

Piett swallowed and hastily put the new chit into his computer: there was only one thing on it, and his eyes widened.

 _Five Million Credits_ , from Vader's account to his own. Maker. He would free his mother and both his sisters. Perhaps his sister's bastards as well.  _They_  would not need to wait for their fathers to claim them, not if Piett could do it first. 

His mouth hung up, gaping like a stuck fish, before quickly closing it and stuffing the flimsy into his pants pocket and standing; he would have to get a ship,  _now_. Before his Lordship changed his mind.

A shuttle was waiting for him when he hit the Executor's bay; he grinned, understanding, as he buckled himself in. Vader could not stop the Emperor from endorsing slavery, but he could reward the survivors. He understood Vader now - and Vader understood him.

He plotted a course, giving thanks for the gift Vader had given them. He knew despite the risks, he would continue to serve as an admiral in his majesty's fleet upon his return to the fleet. Stars, two weeks and he'd have to do so much! But he would return, he knew, and early, if he could.

Vader needed allies and he had just bought Piett for life. He would give his Lordship whatever he asked; total submission should it come to it. He would lie on his back and submit gladly. 

And if not that, then he would simply serve as best he could.  
  
He would kill every last rebel, cut Skywalker's throat himself - unless that, too, was his Lordship's pleasure. 

 

 


End file.
